The Cold Between. Elizabeth Bonesteel
smile.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
He slid one hand over her ass and down one toned thigh, and pulled her knee up alongside his hip. She wrapped her leg around him, pulling him closer; and with little maneuvering, he pushed himself inside of her.
She cried out, an unmistakable sound of pleasure, and he felt her muscles tighten around him. He found himself groaning as well. She was tight and warm and so lovely, so soft, and he drove into her again and again, grateful for the wall holding her up, riding the wave of pleasure higher and higher, and every moment he thought it was going to break, she pulled him in deeper, devoured his mouth, ran her hands over his back, into his hair … Good God, I would drown in her if I could, and that was his last coherent thought. When she finally gasped and called out, over and over, her body convulsing, clutching at him, inside and out, surrendered completely to pleasure, he went over the edge with her, pounding again and again, oblivious to everything else, letting the waves wash over him as she moved with him, hanging on for dear life, until all was spent into stillness.
They stood, unmoving, wrapped around each other, for several minutes. Trey was not entirely sure he could do anything else. As he came back to himself he found her stroking his hair and nuzzling the inside of his neck. He glanced down at her and she smiled, her eyes light and contented.
“I may fall down,” she confessed.
He laughed. “Let us see what we can do about that.” He pushed away from her a little, testing his legs; they seemed to be willing, for the moment, to hold him up. He reached for her again, and she put her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her; she wrapped her legs around him, linking her ankles behind his knees. It seemed as practical a way as any to travel.
He carried her past the bathroom door into the bedroom, enjoying the weight of her in his arms, her limbs so unself-consciously embracing him. Gently he deposited her on the blanket-covered bed, and managed to lie down next to her without letting her go.
He closed his eyes, pleasure still warming his blood. It was not as if his recent life had been without women, he reflected. It had just been so long since he had been with one who had given herself over so completely. Since Valeria, perhaps. More than a year.
He had no inclination to linger on the past.
He pulled her closer, and she draped a long leg over him, tucking her head under his chin. “If I had known you were coming,” he told her, one hand skimming her waist to come to rest on her hip, “I would have ordered a skylight in here as well.”
She laughed, and he felt the vibration of it against his chest. “You should have one anyway,” she said. “It’s easier to sleep if you can see the stars.”
“I will tell you,” he admitted, wondering at his newfound gregariousness, “I have never had trouble sleeping. Out there, I was well-known for it. I could sleep on my feet if there was a need. But I did know a few, like you, who needed windows.”
She shifted against him, and he was surprised to feel a twinge of desire returning. “I used to fall asleep in the engine room,” she told him. “There’s this catwalk there, with these big floor-to-ceiling windows. They take them out for maintenance sometimes, when she’s docked, but the rest of the time, it’s the best view on the ship. A few months in, the captain heard about me sleeping there, and he found this little unused storeroom with one windowed wall and had it converted for my quarters.”
“He is thoughtful, then? Your captain.”
She was quiet a moment. “In some ways,” she said. He was not surprised she found it a complicated question. Command required separation, and often callousness, and even those who understood were not always comfortable with being on the receiving end. “Mostly … he is observant, and he is good at knowing what keeps us efficient.” She looked up at him. “I used to think, sometimes … There are these moments, in life, when you just stop and realize that everything is just as it should be. Everything. I had that, a little. For a while. But even now—I try to remember that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be valuable.”
He brought his hand to her face again, brushing his knuckles against her cheekbone. “Are you always so kind?” he asked her.
“Only to people I’m in bed with.”
Her hand was resting on his rib cage, and he felt the heat of her fingertips and wanted to pull her on top of him. Somehow this woman was turning him back into a teenager. “It seems to me,” he observed, lacing his fingers in hers, “that you are not the sort of woman who should be finding herself in bed alone.”
“Now you sound like Jessica,” she said.
“She is right on the cure,” he told her, “but not the problem. You are a beautiful woman. Regardless of your ship’s shortsighted population, you should be worshipped, not sent out to try your luck at a spaceport bar.”
“My luck worked out well this time,” she pointed out.
“I am serious.” Actually, he was outraged, but that seemed presumptuous. “This fool, that you were in love with. What happened?”
A shadow crossed her face. He had seen it before, in the bar, when she had dismissed the possibility of true love surviving on a starship; but either he had missed the depth of her pain, or he simply read her better now. “The usual,” she said, and he thought her lightness was feigned. “He lied, and I found out. I tried to forgive him. I failed.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Two and a half months.”
He winced. “Damn. I am sorry, my dear. I did not mean to remind you of fresh grief. Especially here.”
She shook her head. “But it doesn’t hurt to remember it here.”
“I am your first lover since then.”
“Yes.” She smiled, and some of the wickedness was back. “You do not remind me of him at all. And that is a compliment.”
Just then he heard a sound, and realized it was her stomach rumbling. “Good Lord, is that you? Are you hungry?”
“Starved, actually,” she admitted, looking embarrassed. “I was too nervous earlier to eat much supper.”
“This,” he declared, “I can fix.” He sat up, and her hand slid over his arm to rest on his back. “On your feet, woman,” he commanded. “I must give you fuel. I have every intention of your needing it.”
She followed him out to the kitchen. He leaned down to retrieve his clothes, pulling on his shorts and handing her his shirt. She shrugged it on, not bothering to button it, and he took a moment to take her in. He was never going to be able to look at that shirt the same way again.
Shaking himself, he turned and opened the refrigerator, a cool draft escaping into the darkened room. “You have a sweet tooth,” he assumed.
“God, yes,” she said, moving in behind him to look over his shoulder. “What do you have?”
He retrieved his latest experiment from the top shelf. He was only on the second stage—he was still deciding whether to wrap it in pastry, or to thicken it and coat it in some expensive, off-world chocolate—but he thought, so far, that it was rather wonderful on its own. He pulled open a drawer to retrieve a spoon, and scooped a little out of the bowl.
“Here,” he said, holding the spoon out to her. “Tell me what you think.”
She took it, glancing at him, then gamely took a taste. In an instant her expression changed to something not unlike what he had seen a few minutes ago by the alcove.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “What is that? Cream, and lemon, and … hazelnut?”
“You have a discerning palate,” he told her, pleased. “I’ve also added a splash of rum, just to deepen the fruit flavor. I was worried it was a bit too much.”
She